


Breakthrough

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Christmas, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Mycroft really needs to be careful about is his own involvement, the small puff of sentiment hanging over his own clever head. Hence the bad decision of standing outside DI Lestrade’s front door at eleven o’clock at night and tapping on it lightly with the handle of his umbrella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakthrough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alafaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/gifts).



 

On what is qualifying to become one of the longest days in his life, Mycroft makes a bad decision.  
  
There are no imminent negative consequences _per se_. He can’t even pinpoint any negative long-term effects. He is going with his instinct on this one. As sure as nothing good happens in a back alley at three o’clock in the morning—certain establishments and their back alleys the obvious exception—Mycroft knows the sort of thing he is about to do can’t end well.  
  
At least it won’t harm Sherlock or the country. As is often the case, that must suffice.  
  
But the decision is bad nonetheless. It sends Mycroft to a place he rarely visits: the unknown. Mycroft is an analyst, and the best one, too. Governmental and non-governmental departments alike spill their guts over his desk, and Mycroft finds the relevant dots in the myriad of data, then proceeds to connect them in variations impossible for the ordinary human brain to fathom. More plainly, he figures things out. He makes projections, sometimes as immediate as the knock on the door, sometimes as distant as a hundred years from now. This is his specialty. It doesn’t happen to him not to know, it just doesn’t.  
  
Mostly because he steers clear from the one area he has identified as perilous: individuals. Not groups, not departments, not populations, not communities. Not workers, not public figures, not personas. _Individuals_. Alone, they’re already dangerous for the unpredictability their heavy cloud of feelings brings into any equation. But that factor Mycroft can manage, because he has the necessary distance and because he is good at reading people. What he really needs to be careful about is his own involvement, the small puff of sentiment hanging over his own clever head.  
  
Hence the bad decision of standing outside DI Lestrade’s front door at eleven o’clock at night and tapping on it lightly with the handle of his umbrella.  


\---

  
Greg Lestrade opens the door straightaway, just as expected. He is both exhausted and rather high strung, which makes for a jumpy person. Mycroft waited for fifteen minutes after he saw Lestrade go inside. Enough time for the man to have a breather, courtesy of Mycroft’s stupid soft spot for him, yet not enough to send him to bed. Though falling asleep was never a danger anyway. Lestrade has just had one of the most nightmarish days of his career. Add Sherlock’s “suicide” and that’s one of the most nightmarish days of his life. Mycroft is convinced it’s the latter that’ll chase away any sign of peace for the good inspector, for weeks to come. James Moriarty didn’t pick Gregory Lestrade as one of his snipers’ targets by flipping a coin.  
  
The face at the door looks like a sheet of old, grey paper crushed into a ball, then thrown at a bin—only to miss it.  
  
“Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade’s voice is almost gone. “Er, come in.”  
  
With a quick perfunctory stretch of his lips, Mycroft nods and steps into the hallway. Lestrade closes the door behind him and quickly runs a hand though his hair.  
  
“This way,” he says, and takes a few steps down the hall to a door that leads into an open living room. Mycroft quickly scans it, not hiding his gaze as it makes a stop at the main stations that reveal things about the occupant of any place: coffee table, sofa, dining table, TV. They tell him nothing he doesn’t already know about the fine British male specimen in his presence. Mycroft’s eyes return to Lestrade, who is standing with his back to the kitchen isle, arms crossed over his chest. It’s not a defensive stance; it’s not a statement of any sort. As far as Mycroft can tell it’s the instinctive attempt of a man on the verge of crumbling to keep himself upright.  
  
Mycroft rushes to end his visit quickly. The visit he undertook—irrationally, because what sort of a reason to do things is simply feeling _the need_ to do them?—without any consideration of how it would affect the man whose well-being has come to mean so much to him.  
  
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” he says, and ignores the involuntary twitch of Lestrade’s eyebrow—obviously the idea of Mycroft being capable of ‘barging in’ is quite amusing on some level. “I wanted to stop by…Well, there will be plenty to take care of in the next few days, preparations for the funeral and so forth. I realized I actually wouldn’t have a chance to see you before the service, so I allowed myself to disturb you at this hour. I wanted to—” Mycroft looks down at his feet. Curious how it’s the half-truth that halts him. He looks up again.  
  
“My brother might have had his singular way of not showing it, but he respected you and considered you something of a friend. I felt I owed it to him—and to you—to come here in person and thank you for everything you did for him.”  
  
His little speech, designed to be soothing and rewarding, is affecting his audience the opposite way. Lestrade’s face has been dropping all along, and now he looks even more…scrunched up. His eyes are glistening. He nods, then clears his throat.  
  
“Much good I did him,” he says, voice incredibly rough.  
  
Mycroft finds himself taking a step forward.  
  
“There is nothing you could have done,” he says calmly.  
  
Lestrade shakes his head. The motion is carried down through his body, weakening his stability and making him reposition his feet wider. It’s a good look on him, Mycroft thinks vaguely. This is a man’s stance, salt of the earth. Mycroft would never be able pull it off. If he could just lean on him, maybe he wouldn’t have to.  
  
“It’s decent of you to come over and all,” Lestrade says, “but we both know I fucked up big time.” At least the tears have backed out of his voice. Now there’s only the poisonous edge of self-harm to get rid of.  
  
Mycroft sighs. “You did what you thought was best under the circumstances. I know you warned Sherlock, and I know it wasn’t your choice to follow up the allegations.” He might as well speak openly—it hasn’t evaded his attention that Lestrade didn’t even bother to pretend Mycroft wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “You had to take the chain of authority into consideration. You are not alone. You are part of a system. I know the demands that puts on a man.” Mycroft adds the last sentence with unexpected sincerity. There may have been some bitterness, too.  
  
Lestrade nods this time, but the fight’s gone out of him. He says nothing, just swallows. Mycroft is feeling more like a selfish cad by the second, and he doesn’t even make it to selfish on a bad day. He _has_ to turn this around somehow, but before he has the chance to put his oratory skills to good use, Lestrade speaks.  
  
“I’ve thought about it all day, you know,” he says. “The guv was talking to me, the big boss, everyone, but all I could do was run some cases in my head, over and over again. And I know for a fact,” he points at Mycroft, voice suddenly firm and clear, “Sherlock can’t have been a fraud. There are things that no one, no matter how much genius they had, would have managed to put together. Cases—I can tell—There are at least three cases I can tell you about _right now_ that would have been impossible to stage.”  
  
Mycroft isn’t arguing, but Lestrade still shakes his head adamantly, aggressively, reminding Mycroft of a very pissed off John Watson. “Veronica Havisham, off the top of my head,” Lestrade continues. “He can’t have faked that one. I was there. I saw him work through it step by step with my own eyes, and no one, _no one_ can tell me—tell me—”  
  
He is stuck. His mouth is open, his eyes on Mycroft, pleading, like a man who is choking on something and asking you to slap him on the back. Mycroft would give his kingdom just to lay his hand there.  
  
“Inspector,” he says instead. “You are right.”  
  
Greg hangs his head, defeated by his victory. His fingers run through his hair again. “Why did he do it, then?” He stares at Mycroft. “Why did he have to…”  
  
“I don’t know.” In the big picture this lie is so small, it almost doesn’t count. “But I’ll be looking into it.” The art of deceit is to be believable.  
  
“Well I’m glad to hear it, ‘cause I will, too. The internal investigation will set me on fire in the next few months, but I’ll—”  
  
“You,” Mycroft says with kind authority,” are going to look after your career.”  
  
“No, I won’t.”  
  
“Yes, you will.”  
  
“No, I bloody well won’t. You can’t expect me to sit around and—”  
  
“I am not expecting you to sit around. I expect you to secure your place in the force and not end an excellent career prematurely by—” Mycroft gives a formal polite nod, “and forgive my frankness but I rather think you’re used to the like by now—by blundering all over the place causing more damage than help.”  
  
Lestrade looks at him with lips still parted, then suddenly grins brightly. He’s clearly striving to give Mycroft a heart attack.  
  
They look at each other for a few seconds. The smile dies away and Mycroft knows what’s coming. He’s braced himself for this one from the start.  
  
“You will tell me if you find out anything, right? You’ll keep in touch? If you need any help—What am I saying, I know you’ve got your connections and your means, but you have to promise me that you will keep me posted. And if there is anything, _anything_ I can do to help…” Lestrade’s hands fly open. “You know where I am.”  
  
Mycroft hums agreement. “Thank you.”  
  
“Promise—God knows I won’t be able to get hold of you if you don’t want to talk to me, so you have to give me your word now that you _will_ keep me posted.”  
  
“You have my word.”  
  
And that shouldn’t be the worst thing Mycroft has done on this day, but it still manages to pass with flying colours and make him wish, for the millionth time, that he was less like his brother.  


\---

  
_Six months later_  
  
Minutes to spare—how quaint. Given under the counter as well, without a receipt for purchase. _Take them and leave, Mycroft, no one needs to know_. Because there was never supposed to be any waiting involved here.  
  
When one doesn’t often have the chance to indulge, twenty minutes to spare can stretch to eternity. Mycroft can, of course, find all the free time in the world. The trouble is that _he_ wouldn’t let himself have it. But he has long since discovered that waiting for something is the perfect rest for him: he doesn’t feel guilty, because he _is_ doing something, albeit without actually having to do anything.  
  
It’s a flawed argument, but if he can’t pull the wool over his eyes for something as small as that, his life will become unbearable.  
  
In this case he is waiting in his car, once again outside Greg’s house. Mycroft isn’t worried—he’s got Greg under surveillance and knows what’s delayed him. And seeing that this will likely be the only really unoccupied time Mycroft will have until the end of the year, he decides he can use it as his annual portion of time allocated to acknowledging the festive season. Usually it’s just an archaic chore, a bow to tradition. But at this particular spot, he finds he doesn’t mind.  
  
No car or people can be seen on the street. London has had its Christmas snow. Well, it’s more like a sprinkling, but it still fills the air with that copper hue reflecting from the streetlights. A silent night with snow, in all its simplicity, is as Christmas as it gets for Mycroft. He’s never been as ostentatious as Sherlock makes him out to be. Besides, he is capable of recognizing symbols and their power, as well as his own weaknesses. Mycroft was a child once. Some things you simply can’t delete, no matter how formidable an eraser your brain can be.  
  
Christmas lights and decorations adorn almost every house, and Mycroft finds his eyes returning to the third one from the left. It has a line of hanging lights, the type that look like icicles. Plain light, not coloured. A square of lights also outlines the window of the front room. Mycroft squints at them, idly musing on how he likes emergency exits clearly indicated. Apparently.  
  
Greg’s house hasn’t got any decorations on its façade, but Mycroft is sure there will be a Christmas tree indoors. Artificial, most likely; big, haphazardly covered in ornaments, blinking lights, and tinsel. Mycroft really intends to avoid finding out whether he’s right. He is in, so deep, that he can only hope not to make it worse. Making it _better_ officially ceased to be an option when he got into his car on Christmas Eve and gave Greg Lestrade’s address to the driver.  
  
“Switch off the engine,” Mycroft requests. Bill does, immediately.  
  
The quiet is like a rhapsody. A chill in the car will be worth it; frostbite will be worth it. Mycroft should have asked Bill to do it as soon as he’d found out Greg was running late.  
  
He sinks into his coat and tilts his head to the side, almost touching his forehead to the car window. His mind roams randomly, like a bird sampling endless skies. The last six months have taken their toll on him and he’s started exhibiting symptoms of mental tiredness. Last week he fell asleep with an open book on his chest like he was nine all over again. Tonight, it’s gazing out of windows at a Christmas scene straight out of a Hans Christian Andersen story. Minus the electricity, of course. Fine—it is possible the connection is entirely in Mycroft’s head, but it seems more of a remedy than a symptom.  
  
He hasn’t felt like himself lately.  
  
Or maybe he has, a voice in his head suggests with perfect neutrality. Mycroft tends to listen to that voice. It’s the voice that never fails him, that always strives to bring in the most objective data regardless of the effects on Mycroft, Queen and country.  
  
He doesn’t have a chance to decide whether to ignore it or not. A car has just turned the corner and is pulling up outside number thirty-three. Mycroft straightens and catches Bill’s eyes in the front mirror.  
  
“I’ll ask the gentleman into the car, Bill. We’ll only be five minutes.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Three car doors open and close in synchrony. Bill is a mere shadow in a moment—a man who is paid not just for being there, but for knowing how not to be there. Mycroft is standing by his door when Greg lifts his eyes and notices him. Mycroft isn’t close enough to see his expression clearly. Greg’s body language should suggest whether Mycroft’s presence is a pleasant surprise or not, but Mycroft is too close, unfortunately, for an accurate assessment of _that_. He will have to rely on the data from their previous meetings. There have been a number of them since that first night, the night of Sherlock’s “suicide”, and not once has Greg been displeased. Yet Mycroft can’t bring himself to call him in any way…partial, either.  
  
He still feels confounded about whether this is good news or bad.  
  
Greg hesitates for a second, but by now he knows the formula. Mycroft Holmes plus his car in a public place is likely to equal, ‘Get in’. He crosses the street in a few quick strides.  
  
“Mycroft,” he says before he’s reached him. Mycroft swallows.  
  
“Good evening.”  
  
Greg searches his face, clearly expecting an invitation to the car or at least an explanation for why a man who is technically a mere acquaintance decided to pay him a visit on Christmas Eve. Mycroft is prepared.  
  
“I’ll only take up a minute of your time,” he says with impeccable politeness.  
  
“’S all right,” Greg responds. “I’m not in a hurry.”  
  
Mycroft tries to smile and not look at the dark windows behind Greg’s back. Suddenly, even sitting in a car with him seems too intimate.  
  
“I managed to make a significant breakthrough in my investigation two days ago,” he says. “I waited on some evidence. As it happens, I had it today, and through it the confirmation I needed. Everything will be in the press tomorrow.” Mycroft’s mouth curls coldly, the upcoming allusion for his own pleasure only. “A Christmas fairy tale of sorts.” His face mellows as he murmurs, “I thought I should stop by and tell you as soon as I was certain.”  
  
“Right!” Greg says, nose twitching like the husky breed Mycroft often secretly compares him to. “What is it then? Is it about Sherlock?”  
  
“In a way. It’s about Richard Brook.”  
  
Greg freezes in his place. His dark eyes seem huge and too beautiful to belong to anything other than a man. Mycroft takes a breath and delivers his monologue in an effortless performance.  
  
“I can’t disclose any details at present, but I can confirm that Richard Brook was the false identity of James Moriarty. The latter was a real person and a criminal. We now have evidence that ties him to at least half a dozen crimes, two of which are murders.” Mycroft pauses. “Furthermore, we have every reason to believe that Sherlock was forced to commit suicide under threat.”  
  
Steam is coming in small puffs out of Greg’s open mouth.  
  
“What threat?” he says.  
  
“A threat to the national security,” Mycroft replies softly. He knows that he can pass any test or detector now. His pulse hasn’t even stuttered. He is bringing Greg good news tonight, and he can never, ever feel anything but perfectly calm and content about that.  
  
Greg digests the information while his eyes stay trained on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft knows there will be questions—the man is nothing but tenacious—so he schools his features to give off the vibe of a closed gate. A closed iron gate. On cue, Greg’s own face acquires the look of reluctant resignation. The vibe seems to be working.  
  
“Would you like to come in?” Greg asks.  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
 _Would I like to come in? Would I like to come in? I would very much like to come in, yes, thank you, Gregory. So much that about 80% of the mental energy I’ve dedicated to this meeting has gone into telling myself you would never invite me. I am tired. I am alone. I am worried to the bone about my brother, and I was really unwell for about five days last week. I had my tonsils removed when I was six, so every single time I have a cold or the flu it hits my throat directly, because it’s defenceless. Nature intended the tonsils to protect it, but my body turned against me very early on, something of which it has made a lifetime habit. Do you know why I shouldn’t come in? Because I would very much like to talk to you about my tonsils. And I know that a man like me doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to sit down on a sofa, drink wine, brush his shoulder against your shoulder, and_ share. _He doesn’t get to rest his head back, close his eyes, and let your eyes slather his face with concern. He doesn’t get to feel the roughness of your palm or the finesse of your fingers, taste you, spill, press and feel warm and breathe. He doesn’t get to buy you a coat or take your cigarettes away from you._  
  
 _He doesn’t get to tell you the truth._  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says. “Maybe another time. I must be off now.”  
  
Greg looks awkward, admonished even. “Yes, yes, of course.” He speaks quickly, a far cry from the way he typically drags some words. “It’s only that—I got you something.” He scratches his head, embarrassment exuding from the gesture and effectively pulling the carpet of staunch sense out from under Mycroft’s feet. Something? Something? As in—  
  
“It’s nothing, really, I mean just a little—a gift, as a thank you, for keeping me in the loop, and you know…” The drag of words is back, delighting Mycroft. It’s accompanied by an open, direct look in the eyes.  
  
“That’s most kind of you,” Mycroft says, his voice admirably staying faithful to the last. “You shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Well, I did.”  
  
Mycroft smiles, feels the lines around his eyes. Greg, however, doesn’t look very reassured.  
  
“I’ll, uh…” He points with his thumb behind his back and clears his throat. The next words come out in another rush. “I’ll run and fetch it, if you could just give me a sec. Sorry for holding you up, I know you don’t want be here on Christmas Eve.”  
  
It’s been years since Mycroft’s jaw felt inclined to drop, but now it’s either that or smacking himself in the face with his palm. Mirrored fears he’s heard of, but he never thought they’d break through his own.  
  
“I can probably come in. I have a moment,” he calls after Greg’s already retreating back, and watches it lose its rigidity.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by my amazing, irreplaceable teacher and friend [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/)**disastrolabe**.
> 
> Written for the 2012 Christmas edition of [](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/profile)[**holmestice**](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/)—you can find the original entry [over here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/185083.html).


End file.
